Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

  “Do not worry, sah. It will be the closest shave of your life, I promise you.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “The council will see you now, Preceptor Amaia.”

  Amaia nodded to the council attendant and strode through the chamber doors with her head held high and her arms clutching her notes and charts. She cast a glance at the eleven members seated upon high thrones at the end of the large hall. No one spoke as Amaia set up an easel and placed one of several graphs she had painted onto a large canvas for better viewing. She handed a stack of papers to an attendant standing in the shadows to distribute amongst the council members.

  Harbinger Pherick Ochoa absently glanced at the papers set before him as he shuffled through the pages. “Preceptor Amaia, you have requested a special convening of the council.”

  “I have, Harbinger Pherick. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to present my findings.”

  “Your duty is to observe the Tempest, correct?”

  Amaia inclined her head. “It is.”

  “And you feel there is something occurring that requires our attention and cannot wait for a scheduled convening?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I fear that the effects could be temporary, and if we are to seize advantage, we should act without delay.”

  The harbinger leaned forward, his pale, wrinkled face appearing out of the gloom cast by his deep, black hood. “Act in what way, Preceptor?”

  Amaia cleared her throat and stood tall. “Over the last several years, the tempest’s intensity has been waning. The decline has hastened considerably over recent months to the point where I am certain that within a year it will be possible to penetrate the storm and launch an invasion against Eidolan.”

  Several members of the council began mumbling and riffling through the reports. Amaia doubted her declaration came as a complete surprise given the amount of talk that had most certainly occurred long before the session started. Perhaps hearing it out loud and in a formal setting drove home the reality of what she was proposing, or maybe it was just how politics worked.

  The harbinger cleared his throat loudly, a rattling noise that sounded like a man drowning. “That is a bold pronouncement, Preceptor.”

  “One with great potential,” Amaia said.

  “Very true, but potential for what?”

  “For reclaiming what was stolen, Harbinger. For taking back our birthright and restoring us to our former glory.”

  “Perhaps, but more likely the potential is for disaster. How long have you been studying the tempest?”

  “Thirty-five years, Harbinger.”

  Pherick nodded slowly. “That is a long time…if you are an Ulec or some lowborn human. We are Necrophages, masters of death. I have been watching the tempest for almost a thousand years. I saw the sorcerers give birth to it!” He stood and leaned against the onyx table stretched in front of the council. “I was a boy, gazing off the stern of my family’s airship as we fled Phaer and left Eidolan behind. The tempest raged after our pathetic vessels like an angry god and swallowed them whole, ripping them to bits and casting them into the wind like chaff in a cyclone.”

  Amaia refused to buckle beneath his powerful gaze and met his eyes. “It must have been terrifying for a boy to see such a thing.”

  “You cannot know.”

  “I know that the fear it inspired was enough to shake the confidence of not just a boy, but an old man as well.”

  “You are impudent!”

  “And you are still afraid! Too afraid to take the opportunity to see us returned to glory and seek our revenge against the sorcerers.”

  “You mistake wisdom for fear, child. We are flourishing in this new land, and I will not risk destroying us just for the sake of revenge.”

  “We are decaying,” Amaia insisted.

  “Nonsense! When my mother and father helped conquer these savages and build this city, there were a few hundred of us left out of tens of thousands! The rest perished during the war or were destroyed by that damnable storm when we fled. Czernstred is now larger than Phaer ever was!”

  “And yet still a shadow of that city’s glory or power.”

  Pherick sat down heavily. “What do you know of Phaer? Even your parents were born centuries after it was stolen.”

  “I have read the texts and heard the stories. A thousand years is but a generation or two for our kind. Step out of the acropolis’ shadow and see Czernstred for the pit of decay it is. While our numbers have grown, we have become weak, our power diminished through a lack of struggle and inbreeding. You say it would be a disaster to strike at Eidolan, that too many would die. I say that there are too many alive! To keep a plant healthy one must prune the weak branches from the stalk. In the days of Phaer, many who walk the streets today would have been consumed by those who sought greater power; instead they strut about like lords, fat and lazy on the life forces of their Ulec chattel.”

  Pherick quivered with rage at the upstart’s audacity. “I have heard enough. You requested this session, and I granted it. We are done here.”

  “I call for a vote!” Amaia declared.

  Pherick glowered, but his frown curled into a tight smile. “Very well, child. Who seconds Preceptor Amaia’s motion?”

  The council exchanged uneasy glances before her father raised his hand. “I second the motion to call a vote.”

  Pherick narrowed his eyes at Osane but nodded and stood. “Very well, the motion has been seconded. Voting shall proceed from my far left. Each member of the council will draw one of two tokens from the boxes behind me, white in support of Preceptor Amaia’s motion to invade Eidolan, black to cast a dissenting vote.”

  The councilwoman on the far left of the dais stood and walked over to the small table behind the council seats. Using her body to block her vote from view, she chose one of the tokens from the two boxes and returned to her chair. The councilman next to her then stood and cast his vote, and so it went until the last councilman on the far right of the dais had made his choice.

  Pherick stood with his arm outstretched and his hand closed in a fist around his token. “Display your choice.”

  The council mimicked the harbinger’s stance and opened their hands. Amaia’s eyes flicked from councilperson to councilperson and mentally tallied the votes. Her heart leapt when she saw the white disc in her father’s outstretched hand, but it sank when she spotted the black token in her mother’s palm, like a great splotch of cancer.

  Pherick beamed down at her. “The vote is six to five against your proposal, Preceptor Amaia. Your motion fails. As long as I am harbinger, we will not dash ourselves against the rocks in some vain attempt to reclaim a past that is best left dead and buried. I declare this special session adjourned.”

  Amaia’s heart raced as she watched the harbinger raise his gavel. “I move to replace the harbinger!”

  Pherick’s shoulders sagged and he cast Amaia an annoyed look. “Stupid child, only the council can make a motion to remove a sitting harbinger. Now, if no one else has any further business—”

  Amaia shot Gaizar a pleading look.

  The councilman sighed and lifted his bulk out of his chair. “I move that we declare Harbinger Pherick unfit for his position.”

  Pherick’s head snapped to the side so fast that Amaia thought he might break his neck. She had no such luck.

  “On what grounds?” Pherick demanded.

  “Your trauma at witnessing our people’s destruction has left you too fearful to hold our best interests and to lead us to a better life. Preceptor Amaia is right. The city is in decay despite our population’s resurgence. We have people calling themselves Necrophages who have no right to the title. They do not know what it means to be a true Necrophage. The name once inspired terror in anyone who heard it, but now, even the most pathetic lowborn in Eidolan would dismiss us with derisive scorn.”

  “You are as foolish as that girl, Gaizar! The sorcerers crushed us once, when we were at our stro
ngest. You admitted that our power is not what it once was.”

  “We also did not have an army. We had to fight legions of common soldiers as well as the sorcerers. Now we have an army that is more than a match for them, and our numbers and power should be sufficient to contest whatever the sorcerers throw at us, particularly if they do not see us coming. All we have to do is secure one city, and from there we will be unstoppable. We will cut Phaer off from all support, let them starve for a few months, and then invade and take back our home.”

  Pherick raised his gavel once more. “I do not hear a second. If there is none, I declare the motion dead and this session adjourned.”

  Gaizar glared at the second youngest member on the council, one who had voted to support Amaia.

  He stood, and in a trembling voice announced, “I-I second the motion.”

  Pherick looked as if he might strike out at the young man and consume him on the spot. “Very well, the motion to declare the harbinger incompetent has been seconded. We shall recall this special session in precisely three days to vote on it. I suggest the council think on it with all the wisdom at their disposal. Making the wrong choice could very well prove disastrous.”

  The gavel struck the onyx tabletop with a crack of thunder.

  ***

  Nerea stepped into the harbinger’s chambers and unconsciously adjusted her black robes. Her eyes traveled around the large room like a tourist despite having been here before. The red flecks speckling the black marble walls reminded her of blood spatters, and in some rooms within the acropolis, that was often the case.

  Pherick strode into the chamber from another room, and his smile further creased his face and made the flap of skin under his neck rise. “Nerea, so good of you to come see me.”

  Nerea bowed her head. “You summoned me, so I came.”

  “Always faithful. I wanted to thank you for your support today. It was an uncomfortably close vote.”

  Nerea scowled. “Amaia is reckless. Perhaps someday we will be ready to strike back at the sorcerers, maybe even one day soon, but not now.”

  “Your level-headedness is why I supported your position on the council. While ambitious, you are never given to folly, a trait I fear Preceptor Amaia lacks.”

  “I see no reason to fear her at all. She lost the vote to invade Eidolan and she will fail to remove you as harbinger.”

  Pherick pursed his thin lips. “You are right about the upcoming vote, but I think you are making a mistake by dismissing her as a threat.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like you, she is strong and ambitious. I am an old man and not long for this world, certainly not as harbinger. It is no secret that I have been grooming you to be my replacement, and your ascension was all but assured until Amaia made this audacious claim.”

  “And she failed utterly to bring it to pass. Why do you think she is a threat to you?”

  “Not to me, child, to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Remember, both of Amaia’s parents are sitting members of the council. You see the support she was able to garner in little time, and it will not be long until she is seated at the council as well. As a councilmember, she is eligible to be harbinger. With her parents’ vote and the support we have seen for her from the others who are of like mind, well…”

  Nerea followed Pherick’s line of reasoning. “They could vote her in as the next harbinger and get the support they need to invade.”

  “Precisely. She is going to attempt to rally support to her cause for the upcoming vote. My guess is that she is hoping to remove me and elevate Gaizar. Those sitting on the fence, like her mother, will naturally go over to her side if that happens.”

  “We cannot allow it!”

  “No, we cannot.”

  Nerea chewed on her lower lip. “What should I do?”

  The harbinger shrugged. “If it were me, I would do whatever it took to ensure my future.”

  A cruel smile played across Nerea’s face. “What about her parents? She might get them to vote against you.”

  Pherick waved the thought away with his hand. “Do not concern yourself about them. You saw how they voted. They hedged their bets, knowing that the motion would fail if they split their votes. This way, one of them can claim to be supporting their daughter while still ensuring that they both get what they want. The Aldanas enjoy their position, and they will choose the side that will best serve to keep it. They know their best interest lies with me. Go, I am sure you have preparations to make.”

  Nerea bowed and backed toward the door. “I do. Thank you, Harbinger.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jareen set the laden sack down with a dull clunk, and cast his eyes around the laboratory, which locked onto the clay jar filled with fire powder. He looked from the powder to the metal tank in the corner of the room, more specifically, the thick-walled iron pipe running into its top. Auberon had experimented with how certain gases and liquids behaved when compressed. The pressures involved were often extreme, and the capturing apparatus had been built to withstand them.

  Building upon an idea he had been toying with while detained, Jareen stormed from the laboratory and sought out one of the numerous soldiers patrolling the palace grounds. He passed by several guards and continued his search until he found the one he needed.

  “You there!” Jareen called out as he approached the man.

  The soldier instinctively made to raise his crossbow but lowered it when he saw who approached. “Eh, what do you want?”

  “Your crossbow. Give it to me.”

  The soldier screwed up his face. “What? I ain’t giving you my weapon! They’d skin me alive.”

  Jareen held out his hand and made a beckoning motion. “No, they won’t. Tell your sergeant or officer that I needed it for Sah Auberon.”

  The soldier looked at the seal stamped into Jareen’s mask’s forehead. Although Jareen was a slave and he a free man, Jareen spoke with much of Sah Auberon’s authority when executing the highborn’s tasks.

  The soldier laid the weapon in Jareen’s outstretched hand. “You ain’t gonna shoot him, are you?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

  The man grunted and looked at the ground. “Pity.”

  “I will pretend I did not hear you say that, soldier.”

  The man’s face flushed. “Sorry, it was a poor jest, is all. I didn’t mean it.”

  “The lives of our masters is no joking matter, especially for those sworn with their protection.”

  “No, of course not. May the twin gods bless Sah Auberon and the highlords!”

  “You may hear a bit of a racket coming from Sah Auberon’s laboratory. Let any other guards you cross know to expect it. We do not want to be disturbed.”

  “Right. I’ll do that.”

  Jareen returned to the laboratory and sought out the tools he needed. He removed the bow from the stock before unscrewing a length of pipe from the pressure tank, capped one end, and secured it into the crossbow’s runnel with straps equipped with ratcheting buckles.

  He then bored a small hole in the pipe near the capped end. Jareen measured some powder and poured it down the pipe’s open end, tamped it down with a wooden rod, and sprinkled a bit more powder into the small hole he drilled in the top of the pipe near the butt. Jareen looked around the room, searching for something he could use as a projectile. His eyes settled on a tumbler holding dozens of lead balls used to grind the pressed mill cake into uniform granules.

  The size of the lead balls varied, and it took Jareen a few tries to find one of the proper diameter. The lead ball rolled down the tube until it butted up against the powder packed inside. He then clamped his new weapon in a vise bolted to a stout table and pointed it at the far end of the room where a metal pot rested atop a wooden box.

  Jareen tied a smoldering length of match cord to a long stick, stood as far behind his invention as he could, and touched the match cord to the small amount of powder sticking above the hole
drilled into the pipe. The powder ignited with a whump of expanding gases and a thick cloud of smoke. The lead ball shot from the pipe, bounced off the iron pot, ricocheted off the wall, and shattered a glass beaker.

  The pot clattered to the floor, a thumb-sized dent being the worst of its injuries. After setting the pot back on the box, Jareen reloaded, using about half again as much powder. This time, he stood a bit closer and to the side of the weapon to better observe the firing.

  He touched the match cord to the priming powder. Once again, the room filled with smoke and the pot clattered to the floor with a new dent, although this one much larger. Jareen replayed the firing in his mind. He could not keep adding more powder to increase the amount of force the expanding gases exerted on his lead shot. The barrel was not tempered steel, and that much heat and pressure could have disastrous results.

  Jareen chose another lead ball from the tumbler, dropped it down the weapon’s barrel, and tipped it to let it roll back out into his palm. There was simply too much space between the lead shot and the inside of the barrel, which allowed the gas to escape around the projectile instead of propelling it. He could carefully craft a better-fitting shot, but that would be time-consuming, and even being off slightly could result in the shot being too big and creating so much pressure that the barrel burst.

  He looked around the room in search of a solution. He needed some sort of gasket that would trap enough gas to maximize velocity but give way so as to prevent too much pressure from building up before it expelled the lead shot. The answer came to him when his shirttail brushed the back of his hand. Tearing off the corner, Jareen tamped down another charge of powder, smaller like the first test, cradled the lead shot in the swatch of material, and shoved it down the barrel with a wooden rod.

  With the weapon clamped back onto the table, he touched off the powder once again. The table jerked under the recoil, and the pot flew from the box, striking the wall with a loud clatter. Jareen charged through the smoke and recovered the target. He took the pot outside to the clear air and examined the results. The shot had gone through both sides of the pot, leaving holes large enough for him to insert his thumb through without scraping the edges. A grim smile creased his face. Sah Auberon had hoped his powder would change the world, and so it would, but not in any way he could have predicted or even dreamed of.